


Divine Predictions and Terrible Outcomes

by feathershollyandgolly



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angel Erik Lehnsherr, Demon Charles Xavier, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Historical Inaccuracy, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:36:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25733692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathershollyandgolly/pseuds/feathershollyandgolly
Summary: “We’re not enemies,” scoffs Erik.“Oh, so are we friends?” Charles can’t help but grin. “I’ve never had a friend before. Well, a real one. Demons aren’t what I would call loyal or trustworthy.”Erik replies with the hint of a smile, “Then you’d consider yourself an exception?”“I’d consider myself terrible at being a demon.”Erik laughs. The sound echoes through the air, inhuman yet not built to instill fear. It’s genuine. Charles laughs with him, though he is sure the sound of his own is reminiscent of a crackling fire, rather than windchimes.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 15
Kudos: 56





	Divine Predictions and Terrible Outcomes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adlerirene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adlerirene/gifts), [InsertSthMeaningful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertSthMeaningful/gifts).



> So yeah they're just doing an Aziraphale and Crowley hehe (Also I'm sorry none of the GO characters show up a lot ;-; this is a very cherik-centric story) 
> 
> Special thanks to InsertSthMeaningful and adlerirene for encouraging me on the Cherik discord I love y'all !!!!!!!

Charles doesn’t need to sleep, but that doesn’t stop him from dropping his head on his desk and closing his eyes in hopes that he’ll miss the next few centuries. Of course, the paperwork flooding his inbox refuses to stop. 

Every batch arrives with a somehow more incessant _thunk_ than the last one. Charles is ready to tear out his well-groomed hair. Hell or not, a demon is allowed at least a little peace of mind.

_Thunk._

Charles is tempted to scream, which might be funny, but really isn’t. Screaming in Hell is allocated for mortal souls only. Demons are, of course, reserved to cackling and loud barking. He wouldn’t hear the end of it from his coworkers. 

Out of sheer curiosity (as well as the fact that the metal chute looks as though it’s ready to explode and surely drown him) he finally picks up the first file and reads it. 

Then he reads it again. About the fourth time he reads it he realizes that he’s read it eight times and that the paragraph is not much longer than he remembers. (There is also one page with an image of a rabid chihuahua, and the fact that this gives him a sigh of relief really says it all).

Apparently, some absolute _twat_ is going around upstairs killing people for the further upstairs. 

Some... _angel_ , no less. That can’t be right. Angels don’t get rid of that many people at once—that’s why Charles took the job of archiving Divine-Justice-Smote-Souls in the first place. Quite frankly, he’s lazy and wants time to read Mesopotamian literature. And because he’s not great at actually being evil.

Now, however, he feels evil just looking at the growing stack. The work of just one supposedly ethereal being. Erikael (who insisted everyone call him Erik, for some reason). This apparently minor angel has taken the work of Heaven into his own hands. All brute force and agility, impossible to catch or stop.

Charles pushes the paperwork aside. The angel barely has the clearance to do something like this, effective or not. He’s hardly even a Principality.

_Thunk._

Charles kicks the wall in frustration. He regrets it immediately.The inbox chute takes Charles’ kick at the wall as the perfect opportunity to explode, sending paperwork flying across the room and spilling over his already chaotic workspace.

“Fuck,” Charles hisses.

It’s been two days and it already happened. Two days to pile on thousands of files in an office that barely gets two a year. 

If Charles has to march into Heaven himself and yell at the angel, he’ll do it. He swears on Lucifer.

-

Meeting Erik is a mistake. 

Charles spends hours in Heaven’s Embassy, which has an embarrassingly long line and even worse service. They offered him a _cool towel_ the second Charles had shown any sign of sweating. (Demon’s don’t really sweat, but Charles is dramatic). 

Angels are the worst. Demons are the worst. Different reasons, same conclusion.

By the time Charles arrives, perching next to Erik and transforming into a human form, he realizes that he’s an hour late. Erik glances out at the Colosseum, watching the crowd scream as the losing gladiator struggles to his feet. He turns to see Charles arrive.

“Erik,” Charles addresses stiffly.

Erik does not frown. He does not discorporate Charles for his tardiness. Far worse, Erik _grins_ at him. 

“Charles,” Erik replies. “You’re a _Titmouse_.” 

Charles is sure that if he wasn’t tired of all of the paperwork, he would discorporate Erik himself. 

“Obviously not at the moment. Besides, I will have you know that I am _quite_ diabolical,” Charles insists. 

“I’m _shaking_ in my sandals.”

“Stop smiling at me like that.” Charles’ face feels warm and he can only hope he doesn’t look like an idiot. “What are you even trying to accomplish with all of this smiting for judgment? Is it direct orders?”

Erik barks out a laugh. “Direct enough.”

Erik waves an arm. The crowd’s thumbs turn. A death sentence.

“Well.” Charles purses his lips, thinking of anything he could possibly offer to get out of the paperwork. “If you stop getting nearly as many people killed a year...I’ll ensure they’re punished down here.”

Erik turns to him, eyebrows raised. It’s the first time he doesn’t seem completely disinterested.

“And just how are you going to accomplish that?” He asks.

“I can prod some folks in the right direction,” Charles replies, feeling scrutinized. “I suppose.”

Erik scoffs. “You’re going to use human legal systems? You’re starting to sound like an angel.”

“Oh shut up.” Charles swears he doesn’t sulk at that. “I’ll start some fights and betrayals. It’ll give me points. And get your so-called vermin off the earth without the paperwork coming to my department.”

“And?”

“And you’ll get to get rid of people once in a while, but you won’t have to do the entire job yourself. It’s an even deal, wouldn’t you say?”

Charles quite likes Earth, too. He’d spend most of his time there if he didn’t have office work, but all the work on Earth involves drastic things like encouraging murder. He’d much rather call in a few favors and watch the humans scramble around to catch a villain. They always do such drastic things on the way and all sorts of temptations can come from _that._

Erik seems to consider it before reaching a hand out. “We don’t meet. We never met. I’ll send you messages, but otherwise, we are enemies. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Charles shakes it. Which is ironic, because usually contracts like that are sealed the other way around. The crowd cheers. Sunlight burns.

Distantly, Charles curses to himself for forgetting to bring anything lighter to wear. (And not because Erik exudes ethereal energy, because even thinking that Erik is the cause of Charles’ clammy hands simply won’t do).

No matter. Either way, Charles is getting an excellent raise for this. 

-

When Charles returns, there are no cool towels, thankfully. Even better, none of his coworkers spare him a glance as he sneaks back to his office. They don’t spare him glances anyway, so things are what a demon would call, normal (and a human would call, absolutely terrible. It’s Hell for a reason). 

He almost makes it when he spots a familiar tall frame approaching him with a sort of slithery saunter that isn’t quite a walk and isn’t quite _not_ a walk. Oh, it’s him.

A demon known for being the first tempter. Eccentric, even for a denizen of Hell. His ranking is just high enough that he has the mission to travel to the surface and tempt humans however much he pleases. Crowley is an old friend, and someone Charles had once aspired to be like.

He also happens to be the manager of Charles’ division. Charles remembers the mound of paperwork in his office and pales.

“Charless!” Hisses Crowley, in a friendly way, if hissing can be friendly. “How are thingsss coming along in Divine Interventionss?” 

“Well,” Charles clears his throat.

Crowley frowns. “Well, what?” 

“Well,” Charles states. 

“No, no, you were going to say ssomething after that,” Crowley insists. 

“I needed to cough.” 

“Right.” Crowley probably narrows his eyes behind his sunglasses, but it’s always impossible to tell. 

Charles shrinks a bit and speeds into his office before any more words are exchanged. Hopefully, Crowley looked far away from the mess of papers currently forming a new type of species as they continue to spill from the chute. 

Charles is more than happy to continue believing that.

-

The following are a series of letters exchanged from 1100 to 1700

_Charles. Crusaders. -Erik._

_Erik, Never demand something like that again, or you shall not see the results you want. Best wishes, Charles._

_-_

_Charles. When I said sort out Europe, I didn’t mean kill ⅓ of their population. -Erik._

_Erik, If you’re accusing me of starting the Bubonic Plague, I’ll have you know that I was busy turning the corrupt Papacy against itself. Try not to assume that every bad thing that occurs is my fault. Regards, Charles._

_Charles. I see. It’s good that you didn’t...do that. I’ll let you know if something comes up, but it’s been quiet these days. -Erik._

_Erik, Why, that almost sounds like an apology! My poor demon eyes are burning. (Just kidding. Please, apologize as much as you’d like.) Sincerely, Charles_

_Charles. I will do no such thing. Fir— wait. What the hell is going on down there? -Erik_

_Dear Erik, Imagine hearing me sigh audibly. You never do expect the Spanish Inquisition. I’ll try to do something about it. Sincerely, Charles._

_-_

_Titmouse. They’re eating the mummies. I hate European archeologists so much. -Erik._

_Dearest Erik, Was that you? On the street corner? Sincerely, Charles (ps. Stop calling me a Titmouse.)_

_Titmouse. No. You never saw me. Chess? -Erik (ps. I will do no such thing.)_

-

The thing is, at some point, both of them stop trying to avoid each other once they realize that it’s impossible. 

They have the same taste in food and poorly-designed architecture. Erik has taken to studying algebra right when Charles is trying to involve himself in the spice trade. Or sometimes Charles is trying to send manuscripts forbidden by the church to places where they’ll be read, and Erik happens to be looking for a good book. 

Sometimes they pretend to be surprised to bump into each other, but it’s futile. 

-

“I can’t believe you,” says Charles, crossing his arms and trying his hardest to stifle the secret laugh beneath his frustration.

“What?” Erik asks, feigning innocence. 

“You know what.” Charles snorts. He points upward. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the familiar features of a certain _ignudio._ ”

Erik doesn’t even _like_ the Sistine Chapel. That’s precisely why he’s painted on the ceiling. Other newcomers crowd inside the building, staring with a mix of interest and scandal at the amount of nudity stretched out above them.

“I have no idea what you’re on about, Titmouse,” Erik says, smirking. “I’ve never met Michelangelo in person.”

Charles glares half-heartedly at Erik. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I don’t know, maybe I’m telling the truth.” Erik shrugs. “You see what you want to see.”

Charles is absolutely certain the angel is flirting with him. He tries to be angry about it. He fails. 

-

It’s the late 1800s, and Charles _really_ should have known better. 

For the first time, Erik seems genuinely furious. He paces aggressively, practically burning a hole in the floor with his aura. If it weren’t for a quick miracle, Charles is sure that the innkeeper would file a complaint.

“You _what?_ ” Erik hisses, finally whirling around to face him.

“I just suggested the third estate go to Tuileries and ask for a national convention!” Charles protests. “I assumed a revolt like that would cause some right good chaos, not _mass murder_.”

“Is there any way we can put a stop to this?” Erik gestures at the mayhem outside as crowds of French citizens line up at the Bastille, storming the gates of the tower. 

Charles winces. “There’s always Napoleon, but I’m not going anywhere _near_ that bloke.”

A crash rings out. Something smells like smoke, and Charles is certain he hears gunfire. It’s not unjustified. He didn’t expect the king to be so bloody stubborn about the whole thing, though.

“Anything _else_?” Erik asks impatiently. 

“Sieyes?” 

Erik sighs but nods slowly. “Sieyes. Maybe.”

Things don’t entirely go as planned. Things like guillotines were not supposed to be involved. Until they were. And the escape of the royal family went terribly wrong. And the government dismantled itself multiple times.

Years and an emperor later, Sieyes vanished mysteriously. Which is funny, because Charles and Erik both swore to never speak to Napoleon.

-

By the time 1900 rolls around, the industrial revolution comes in full swing and Charles has to keep up with far too many new inventions for him to think about the present state of the world. He finally catches up with Erik at a glamorous party in New York, in which Erik is poking at a corrupt politician.

Charles had planned on tempting a few future speakeasies himself. He didn’t count on Erik arriving.

“Oh,” says Charles. “Hi.”

“Come to the balcony with me, Titmouse,” Erik replies, getting straight to the point as always. 

Charles follows him, slipping between glittering upper-class socialites and corrupt businessmen until he finds his way to the open porch doors. He spots Erik standing at the edge, silent and watching the distant current of the Hudson.

They are alone. Someone should probably say something. 

“You think there’s anyone else working together like this?” Charles finally asks, breaking the quiet.

Erik turns to him. “Like what?”

“Well, we’re supposed to be enemies,” continues Charles. “But so far we’ve just been bumbling around Earth trying to stop everyone from destroying each other.”

Erik blinks, his form illuminated by moonlight, if not his usual ethereal glow. He leans against the banister and frowns. 

“We’re not enemies,” scoffs Erik. 

“Oh, so are we friends?” Charles can’t help but grin. “I’ve never had a friend before. Well, a real one. Demons aren’t what I would call loyal or trustworthy.”

Erik replies with the hint of a smile, “Then you’d consider yourself an exception?”

“I’d consider myself terrible at being a demon.”

Erik laughs. The sound echoes through the air, inhuman yet not built to instill fear. It’s genuine. Charles laughs with him, though he is sure the sound of his own is reminiscent of a crackling fire, rather than windchimes. 

“If I say you’re a good person, will you be mad at me?” Erik asks.

“Only a bit. Only because I know you’re not so high-and-mighty yourself.”

“I suppose not, Titmouse.”

Charles would glare at him if he did not notice the amused shine in his eyes. Instead, he takes two drinks from a passing server.

“Mint julep, darling?” Offers Charles.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Erik replies, sending him a familiar toothy smile.

The atmosphere of the night turns comfortable as they head back inside; whatever scheme they had originally planned to discuss completely forgotten.

-

Things change after the depression. The war to end all wars ends up not being the final one, after all. Tensions grow. Erik, restless as ever, is purposefully silent for months at a time. By the time they catch up, Charles is on his fourth mutiny plot and factions of the resistance are unifying.

It is there that he bumps into Erik again.

“Titmouse,” says Erik, looking almost human with the weight of the current world. “This isn’t exactly the place for socializing.”

Whispers are exchanged around them. Plans and fearful objections. Places to escape if things go south.

“I’m currently trying to end this bloody reign, just like you,” Charles explains. “I’ve been planting all sorts of ideas of betrayal in the minds of politicians, resistance fighters, etcetera. You’re…”

“In the resistance myself, yes,” Erik confirms. “I would never allow an injustice like this to continue unaddressed.”

“How? I thought neither Heaven nor Hell were allowed to intervene in something the humans started all on their own.”

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” Erik asks. 

“You know I’m bad at being a demon,” Charles smiles, wry at the edges.

“Fair point.”

Charles watches the meeting conclude, with everyone high-strung and anticipating the worst. He hopes, deeply, that their voices are never silenced. By the time the small apartment living room clears, Charles and Erik are the only ones staying unnoticed.

“You know...I can get America to officially join the Allied front,” says Charles. “They’ve already been attacked. The anger is there. All I have to do is contact the president and give him a nudge.”

Erik’s stormy gaze seems to gleam. “Really?”

“I’m promoting war, even though I’m ulteriorly trying to end it,” Charles dismisses. “It’s not necessarily _for_ you.”

“Of course it isn’t, Titmouse,” Erik says gently. “I’m simply happy to see us fighting side-by-side.”

“Oh.”

Charles isn’t quite sure how to reply. Witticisms don’t do much good in situations like this, but he’s a demon, and ruining situations is sort of his thing. Instead, he simply nods. 

-

They meet at Woodstock.

Erik is still distraught about the abrupt end of the Civil Rights Movement. Charles has no easy way to comfort him, but he does have a large supply of weed (from an undisclosed source that to this day he refuses to name). That seems to be enough.

Time muddles a bit after that. Depressed and almost nihilistic at the loss of what had seemed like hope. 

Listening to Bob Dylan records and getting stoned is not what Charles had expected to be doing with his spare time, but he can’t say he minds. Especially not when he discovers what shotgunning with an ethereal being is like. 

Aptly, the experience could also be called ethereal.

A few years and some hippy parties later, they somehow end up renting an apartment in San Francisco. 

In the cramped, smoke-filled living room, Charles waves his arms around lazily muttering about politics. He’s certain he’s dressed in something, but modesty is such a trivial, human experience. 

“Erik, darling,” he murmurs. “If I tell you I have a certain recording on me of a certain politician do you think you could pass it on to congress? As a little favor?”

Erik, who is currently draped across Charles’ lap, wrinkles his nose. 

“You’ve been here the entire time, how did you make another scandal and why haven’t I heard of this?”

“I wasn’t the one who tempted him to do it,” Charles replies. “But, I did happen to get the evidence. And I can certainly convince him to deny it.”

Erik sits up, practically glowing. 

“The American people are never going to trust the government again.” Erik grins. “I’m a believer in truth. Hand it over.”

Charles would move, but he has a lapful of angel. He says this aloud, to which Erik only grins wider and refuses to budge. (In spite of their rise from absolute drudgery, Charles is perfectly aware that it takes longer than it should for them to get their act together.)

-

In between his little excursions to the surface world, Charles is usually stuck doing what he always does in Hell. Paperwork and such. The trips are seen as vacations, a world which in Hell terminology means ‘you can leave your office for a year or so but you have to keep working or we will find you and drag you back kicking and screaming’. 

So when Charles shows up years too late after his...sidetrack in San Francisco, he is greeted with a nasty sight. Or, it would be nasty if he could see in the dim lighting of Hell. 

“Xavier, exactly _where_ have you been?” Beelzebub roars. They are, for the lack of a better term, buzzing with anger. 

Charles shrinks back into his seat, which he thought he had snuck to so well. “Well, I spent—”

“You spent _four years_ up there,” cuts in Beelzebub. 

“I got sidetracked.”

“Tempting isn’t even your job, Xavier. If I see you going upstairs one more time I swear to Lucifer you will be demoted!”

Charles shivers. Demotion means moving to an even dingier office. With even more paperwork. Possibly even...staplers. He’s already practically an intern in his position. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

“You better be ready for the Apocalypse,” Beelzebub continues. “Unless you’ve spent so long on Earth that you’ve forgotten. We have a lot of _work_ to do.”

“Oh,” says Charles faintly. “Did we make an Advent Calendar?”

Beelzebub hands him a piece of orange-flavored licorice. 

“Tomorrow's flavor is pomelo,” they state.

Typical. Charles regrets ever assuming Hell couldn’t make things worse. He chews the stale licorice and watches Beelzebub leave without another word (and without even shutting the door, which, who even _does_ that?).

Eleven years until the end of the world. It’s a daunting thought. Charles gets another terrible flavor of licorice every day, each only contributing to the terrible ache in his stomach at the thought. 

And so he sits, sulking at his desk with not much else to do but work.

-

Charles has not seen Erik in years thanks to Apocalypse overtime. He is starting to miss Earth. 

He’s definitely missing Erik. He even almost misses _cool towels_ and dodging questions from Crowley about his surface escapades. 

_Thunk._

The sound reverberates, followed by a crash as Charles scrambles to his feet to see what had arrived. His inbox has been barren since the Apocalypse started and Heaven became busy preparing for the oncoming war. He doesn’t want to think about it. He has too much to lose.

Rather than the usual case file, what sits in the cache is a small envelope. Charles tears it open and pulls out the letter inside, reading the familiar handwriting with shaking hands.

_Titmouse. In lieu of recent events, do not contact me. Do not meet me at a certain spot at London SOHO, in a small bookstore that seems closed but isn’t. Especially do not think of bringing everything you don’t want to leave behind (and may I suggest a good chess set?). E._

For the first time in what is probably a year, Charles smiles and somehow knows that everything will turn out alright. Apocalypse notwithstanding. He is ‘certainly not’ going anywhere near that bookstore to find his favorite angel. Not at all.

(He throws away five hundred fifty-eight terrible flavors of licorice while he’s at it.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> Also please look up what a Tufted Titmouse looks like they're so cute and that is the bird Charles can turn into :0


End file.
